The Last Night
by Trekkieb
Summary: Sequel to "The First Night." It's John Carter's last night in Atlanta.


**Disclaimer**: The characters of ER do not belong to me. They are owned by NBC, and other big names. No money is made from this work of fiction, and no copyright infringement is intended in the least.   
**Rating:** G   
**Summary:** #2 in the Homecoming Series, several missing scenes for the ER season premiere, "Homecoming." Spoilers for that episode. It's John Carter's last night in Atlanta. 

Italics mean flashback. :-) 

The Last Night   
**By [Trekkieb][1]**

  


Thirteen hours. Thirteen hours and – John looked at his watch – twenty minutes until his plane departed Atlanta for Chicago. 

Most of his belongings were already packed. All of his clothes, minus the pajamas that he wore and a clean set of clothes for tomorrow, were neatly rolled and placed in his duffle bag. His toiletries and other personal things were also put away. 

He'd had some energy and some time on his hands, since he couldn't sleep. 

He was too keyed up to sleep, despite the late hour. It was roughly two-thirty in the morning, as it had been that first night all those days ago. 

Unlike that night, however, his window wasn't open, and moonlight did not fill his room. It was raining outside, not heavily, but steadily. The only light came from the small lamp on the nightstand; the sixty-watt bulb cast a warm glow over him as Carter looked out into the rain. An occasional flash of lightning added its illumination to things. 

Also unlike that night, he wasn't feeling miserable and ill. No cramps, no sweats, no tremors, and no nausea. 

In fact, he feltfine. Not good. Not yet, anyway. Good would take some work. But fine was a giant improvement over his previous state of being. 

A lot more than merely feeling better had happened in the past three months. At least it seemed that way to him. 

He hadn't really made any friends -- he hadn't wanted to -- but he'd learned that he wasn't alone, that other people were going through the same problems that he was. He'd survived the first awful days of withdrawal. He'd learned to resist when the cravings came. He'd learned to face his addiction bluntly 

* * *

_The fifth day of rehab, Carter had yet another session scheduled with one of the center's counselors._

_Tell me, John, said the middle-aged therapist, Roger, as he folded his hands in his lap. We've discussed this in the past several days, but we never really got down to the real issue. Why do you believe you turned to drugs?_

_Carter raised his eyebrows. That wasn't exactly an easy question, and he said so._

_Life is rarely easy, Roger countered with a slight grin. But, try to tell me what you were going through at that time. What you were feeling and why you thought that the drugs would help._

_Carter unconsciously rubbed his hands together as he thought it over for a minute, trying to organize things in his head. His friends as work, his job, his cousin Chase, Lucy Knight, all of them flitted through his mind. And, strangely enough, his thoughts landed on Dennis Gant, his friend from med student days. Dennis, who had killed himself._

_Finally, his thoughts settled on himself; his goals, his dreams, his own personal fearsthe attack, the aftermath, the pain, the sense of weariness, the angerat himselfat Paul Sobricki_

_When Carter looked up again into Roger's patient face, he considered all of those things. Yet he still didn't know how to answer the question._

_It was something that required much thought, and John supposed that that was the point._

* * *

and beat it down when it reared its ugly head. 

Not that it had been easy. Good God, no. 

John chuckled slightly and moved away from the window. He sat down at his small desk and picked up the letter his grandmother had sent a week ago. 

He'd had some much needed support to get through this. From his grandmother. She wrote him letters filling him in on the family business, on the gossip, on his parents' current trip to Japan. It felt good to know that she cared 

And he'd had support from Peter Benton. Once in a while he had called Benton at home – he didn't really want to call him at the hospital. It had helped to hear a familiar voice, especially in the beginning, even if that voice was all the way back in Chicago. 

* * *

_~You've reached Peter Benton. I'm not here right now, so leave a message.~_

_Carter wiped a hand across his face. Great, he'd gotten the machine._

_Benton's answering machine beeped, indicating that he should leave a message. Carter paused, uncertain if he should or not. He wanted to talk to Benton, not some machine._

_He was just about to cut the connection without saying anything, when a harried voice picked up the other end of the line. _

_Carter straightened up from where he sat slumped against the trunk of a sorry-looking tree. Dr. Benton, he said._

_Benton's tone became a little less harried and took on a pleased note. Hey, Carter. How's it going?_

_So far so good. I'm sorry, did I call at a bad time?_

_No, no, no Benton reassured. I just got in._

_Yeah? Long day?_

_He could hear Benton chuckle. You could say that. Carter smiled. He'd been there a week, and this was the first time he'd talked to anybody back home. So how are you doing?_

_John's smile faded a little. It's, uh, it's tough, he admitted._

_I know it is. There was a slight pause, as if Benton were gathering his thoughts. But you're bigger than this thing. You can do this, Benton added, repeating the words he had spoken the night he and Carter had arrived at the rehabilitation center._

_ Carter said, noncommittally. Hey, listen, I'd better let you go. You're probably beat._

_You'll be all right?_

_Oh, sure. I'll be fine._

_Hang in there, man._

_Will do, Carter said, jokingly._

_And Carter? It's good to hear your voice, man._

* * *

That brief phone call had helped him tremendously. The first week had been extremely rough, and he'd been feeling sorry for himself. Benton's sincere words had lifted Carter's depression somewhat, giving him a better perspective on things, on what he needed to do. 

They'd talked a few times, since. They never really said much, but Carter looked forward to hearing news of the hospital and his fellow doctors. Benton wasn't much of a gossip, but he tried his best for Carter's sake. 

Carter stretched his arms behind his back and yawned loudly. 

It was late. 

He stood up and crossed the small room to his bed. He picked up the novel he'd been reading earlier and set it on the nightstand, then slid underneath the covers. 

A yawn forced its way out again, and Carter switched off the bedside lamp. The room was plunged into darkness. He closed his eyes and listened to the sound of the rain against the window. 

Tomorrow he had his exit interview. Other than that, he'd have the day to himself. And in the afternoon, he would catch his plane and go home. 

A shiver ofran through him. Anticipation or apprehension One of the two. 

Finis   
  


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